


I Can't Break It To My Heart

by castielsangel_x



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Death Fix, Gen, Hinted Sherlock/John, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 08:48:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castielsangel_x/pseuds/castielsangel_x
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes was dead and John Watson was not coping. Songfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Break It To My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Emerald_dragon90](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald_dragon90/gifts).



> I wrote this fiction right after 'Reichenbach' aired but I was always sceptical of posting it. I did eventually post it to FanFiction.net but they threatened to throw me off for using a song in my fic. So I thought I'd upload it here. Enjoy guys, not my best but it's hard to write when you are upset over a TV show. LOL.
> 
> Song is 'I Can't Break It To My Heart' by Delta Goodrem but when I listen to it, I listen to Katherine Jenkins' cover, so I have used her version really.

** I Can’t Break It to My Heart **

****

Sherlock Holmes was dead and John Watson was not coping. Not at all.

The vivid memory of that day still haunted him, no matter if he were asleep or awake. It played over and over in his mind like a stuck record. His own cry of the detective’s name rang in his ears. Everything. He could remember everything.

The phone call; his last goodbye; the lies; Sherlock stretching out his arms as if to take off but letting himself fall from the edge; the almost slow motion play of his best friend falling through the air; the sickening crack as body met concrete; the bile in John’s throat rising, ready to make him vomit as he was suddenly knocked from his feet; the scramble to get to his friend.

Touching his friend’s wrist.

No pulse.

He could feel the sobs, which were still cooped up in his chest, wanting to burst free. He sat in the living room of 221b Baker Street, looking at the empty chair across from him as he curled up into a ball on his own.

“You fucking idiot.” Those were the only words John could speak of him. “You stupid fucking idiot. You promised you wouldn’t leave me, just as I promised you.” John stood from his chair, turning to see the skull on the mantelpiece grinning at him. John grabbed it, looking into the eyeless sockets. “You promised.” With one hard throw, the skull smashed against the wall, crumbling into thousands of tiny pieces. John crumbled too, falling to his knees, hands grabbing the fabric of the rug as the sobs finally burst free.

So maybe he was worse than he originally thought.

Mrs Hudson was suddenly there, cradling his shaking body against her own, as if cradling a hurt child. She shushed him; him clinging to her as she told him everything would be alright and that she would miss him too. Somehow John didn’t believe it would be as much as he did.

That night, the flat was quiet. Just like the night before that and the night before that. John sat in his armchair, staring blankly at the muted television, hoping that maybe a report would come on the news that Sherlock would be spotted hiding out somewhere, rather than lying, dead, in a cold, dank graveyard. More tears threatened to spill. John took a deep breath before he switched the TV off, getting up and slowly making his way up the stairs, heading to his bedroom. But the sudden realization that he hadn’t been in Sherlock’s room since it happened made him stop outside the detective’s door, just hoping that the younger man was in there, sleeping soundly, making everything a dream. He sighed gently before pushing the door open.

The bed was still unmade from the last time Sherlock had slept in it; his best dressing gown lying across the sheets. John closed the door behind him, moving further into the room, taking in the faint smell that was purely Sherlock; that aftershave he almost bathed in everyday. A lone tear escaping his eye, he reached down to touch the bed sheets. What the hell was wrong with him? He had lost friends in the war and he didn’t mourn them as much as he was now. He had only known Sherlock a while yet here he was, in tears, sobbing for the dead man.

Climbing under Sherlock’s bed sheets, he settled his head on the pillow, the scent of the other man stronger on the fabric. God, how he missed him.

 _‘If it’s okay, I’ll leave the bed light on,_  
And place your water glass where it belongs,  
And if it’s alright, I lie awake at night,  
Pretending that I’m curled up at your side,  
See I’m circling in these patterns,  
Living out of memories,  
I’m still a long way from accepting it,  
That there’s just no you and me’

John remembered one night he had suffered from a particularly bad nightmare, violent, bloody deaths of soldiers in Afghanistan. He had slid into Sherlock’s room and into the bed beside the man, apologising for waking the sleeping detective, before snuggling into the younger man’s side. Sherlock had welcomed the embrace, the heat, the feel of John’s body against his. He told John as such the next morning.

Pulling the detective’s dressing gown up to him, he rolled it into a ball and rested his cheek against it, the comfort and the Sherlock’s faint scent lulling him to sleep.

 _‘But if I still believe you love me, maybe I’ll survive,_  
So I tell myself you’re coming home,  
Like you’ve done a million times,  
And if it’s alright I’ll still be loving you,  
‘Cause I can’t break it to my heart’

“He’s not well, Mycroft. He’s not eating. You’re lucky he’s sleeping now because he barely ever sleeps. I’m ever so worried about him.”

The next morning, John could hear Mrs Hudson talking, obviously to Sherlock’s nosey bastard of an elder brother. He knew what they thought of him, a sad case sleeping in deceased flatmate’s bed. Sad, he knew that, but said flatmate was his best friend.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft said. “I shall stay until he awakens. I’d like to talk to him.” John inwardly groaned, knowing full well that Mycroft wouldn’t go until they had spoken. He heard Mrs Hudson’s footsteps become further and further away as the bed suddenly dipped. “I know you are awake.”

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice hoarse with sleep. “Please, I have enough to deal with without you coming here.”

“John, you have not been to work. You barely eat. You barely sleep. You are a mess, Dr Watson. Crying over him won’t make Sherlock come back,” Mycroft said. Suddenly John threw off the sheets and climbed out of bed.

“Don’t ever say his name to me, Mycroft,” he yelled. “What do you know? You, Moriarty was right about you. The Iceman. Heart of stone. You can’t even shed a tear for your own brother.”

“I have done my mourning, John, where other people cannot see. Don’t ever make out that I do not care for Sherlock. We had our differences, yes, but I loved him as a brother should,” he said, standing, towering over John’s small frame. “You assume you knew him better. You don’t know half of the things he was capable of.”

“Get out of my house.”

“Yours, is it?”

“Yes, because that fucking idiot of a brother of yours killed himself. And I am the only one who lives here,” he yelled, suddenly feeling like he was going to start hyperventilating. He clutched his chest, the sobs rising within his small frame. “My – Mycroft, I c-can’t.” Mycroft suddenly dropped his umbrella to the floor, letting John hold onto him as he slowly sank to the ground.

“John, be calm,” he said, holding the shaking doctor against him. “Be calm.”

“He’s not an idiot. He’s _my_ idiot ... and he’s gone.”

“I know.”

 _Is it just me? Did I commit a crime?_  
I won’t believe that loving you is just a waste of time,  
Was it in my head?  
I’m reading into things you never said?  
‘Cause I still don’t have the answers to why we couldn’t work it out,  
I wanna think it’s something that I did,  
So I can turn it back around.

Harry calls him later, when he’s sitting in his armchair, staring into the empty fireplace. He ignores the phone calls. She gets more and more insistent, voicemail now ringing him too, saying he had too many messages to read. But John didn’t want to talk to anyone.

“John?” Mrs Hudson’s voice said, suddenly, from behind him.

“Hmm?” is his only indication of hearing her.

“DI Lestrade is here to see you,” she said and suddenly Gregory Lestrade’s heavy footsteps on the wooden floor were heard. John turned his head, the detective inspector’s eyes meeting with his own.

“How are you?” Greg asked, squeezing John’s shoulder gently. He went to sit down on the armchair across from John.

“Stop!” he said, causing Greg to frown. “Please ... please don’t sit there. No one has sat there since he last did.” Greg nodded, holding out his hands in surrender, before grabbing one of the chairs from the table in the middle of the room and sitting down.

“That pretty much answers my question for me,” he said.

“I’m sorry, but how do you expect me to be. I watched my b ...” he stopped for a moment to gather himself together. “... my best friend fall from a building onto the pavement.”

“Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted you to be like this ...” he said. John just shrugged. “Let’s go out for a pint. Get you outside. You look bloody awful, mate.” John sighed deeply, knowing he should but, God know, he did not want to. Greg was suddenly on his feet, grabbing John’s jacket and kicking his shoes over to him. “Come on, just one. Just the pub down the road. We can even go for a coffee in the cafe next door. Even just to get you out of here. Please John. Sherlock wouldn’t have wanted this.” Nodding gently, John stood on shaky legs and took his jacket from Greg, pulling it on slowly before stepping into his shoes.

“Just one. I don’t feel like being outside at all,” he said. Greg nodded.

“Anything you want.”

 _‘But if I still believe you love me, maybe I’ll survive,_  
So I tell myself you’re coming home,  
Like you’ve done a million times,  
And if it’s alright I’ll still be loving you,  
‘Cause I can’t break it to my heart’

The pub was quiet but the few people there recognised John from papers and television, offering their condolences for the loss of his best friend, even though he knew they spoke about the ‘fraud detective’ when they thought he wasn’t listening. Greg flashed his police badge, saying something about giving the man some space as he was led to the far corner of the pub. John sat down, mind dazed and throat dry, as Greg went to get them drinks.

John felt sick. He hadn’t been outside since it happened. No housework had been done, no shopping bought (he was sure the milk was completely out of date and something was in there that he was sure used to be cheese) yet he had made it out. He took a deep breath as Greg put a pint down in front of him.

“Get that down your neck ...” he said. “Listen, we know things have been hard but I’m here to talk if you ever need to.” John smiled the best he could.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice cracking a little. Picking up his pint, he took a long drink, savouring the way the lager hit the back of his throat and cooled him down. His phone suddenly bleeped in his pocket but he ignored it. Probably Harry again. He couldn’t deal with her.

“Not gonna get that?” Greg asked, sipping his own drink.

“My sister. She’s been calling and texting all day. I can’t talk to her just now,” he said, taking another long swallow from his pint. He knew he should talk to Harry but he just wasn’t ready to tell her everything.

“It’ll get better,” Greg said, patting his friend on the arm. John smiled at the DI as his phone suddenly bleeped again. Groaning, he pulled it from his pocked and opened the text message, almost dropping the phone into his lager as he read it. His heartbeat raced and he felt butterflies in his stomach. It couldn’t be.

_I’m not dead. Let’s have dinner. 221b. SH_

And with that John stood.

And he ran.

Smiling all the way.

 _So I tell myself you’re coming home,_  
Like you’ve done a million times,  
And if it’s alright I’ll still be loving you,  
‘Cause I can’t break it to my heart’

**END**


End file.
